


Voicemails

by Ivory_Winter



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Drama, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 18:10:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivory_Winter/pseuds/Ivory_Winter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were good at leaving things unsaid, and the voicemails on Arthur’s phone became the only meaningful dialogues they ever had. But that had to change eventually. Didn’t it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Voicemails

**Author's Note:**

> My eternal gratitude to my beta Rairakku, who sets me back on the right path when I wander away from it.

Arthur doesn’t say goodbye to Eames after the Fischer job. He considers a nod of acknowledgment before going his own way out of the arrivals lounge, but he decides against even that small salutation; it is easier to walk away with regrets. Arthur is determined to make them short-lived.

He wonders later if Eames had cared enough to watch him leave.

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The following two weeks of down time are enough to drive him crazy with boredom. There is almost nothing else to think about besides Eames, which is hardly conducive to getting over him. And getting over him is precisely what he needs to do, so Arthur accepts his first solo job in several years – somehow he had lost track of time while working with Dom – at the end of his self-imposed break.

Starting the job brings certain changes: new colleagues to be introduced to, a new target to research, a new city to live in and explore. It keeps his time occupied. Change is not, however, forthcoming in other parts of his life. His time may be occupied but his mind isn’t, at least, not in the way he’d like it to be. The very work itself reminds him of a certain lack, a certain absence, taking the shape of the obnoxious English forger.

Arthur never conceived that he’d miss him, not this much. He tries to relegate Eames to the back of his mind, where he nags at Arthur’s consciousness. Arthur may pretend that it’s nothing, but time and work aren’t easing the hurt the way he expected them to.

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Two months pass and Arthur’s phone battery dies one night. It is quite fortuitous because Christ only knows what would have happened had he actually answered the call. As it is, the voicemail he listens to the following morning leaves him rattled, scowling and – sad? Everything he hates about Eames is embodied in a tinny voice recording, and it threatens to make him fume for the rest of the week. At the same he also can’t help biting down a smile, maybe even an outright chuckle.

From the beginning of the message it is abundantly clear that Eames is none too alert. ‘ _Hello?’_ he shouts, line crackling, _‘Anybody there?’_

Then Eames is silent, the sounds of a bar filling in for the absence of his heavy English, and heavily inebriated, voice.

‘ _Arthur, that you?’_

Another pause, until Eames stupidly says, ‘ _oh_ ,’ and appears to have grasped the situation with that monosyllable. ‘ _It’s not you, it’s just your – Pity.’_ He does genuinely seem disappointed, but Eames has always been a good actor. He has a way of being the most brutally honest person half the time, while being the most slippery, deceptive bastard the other half.

He continues somewhat more cheerfully, albeit forced sounding. ‘ _I better leave you a bloody good one now that I’m on the line, eh? How long has it been, a month, two?’_

Two months, three days, Arthur recites mentally.

‘ _I’m gonna change that. I’ve_ got _to. You could come see me, or me see you. It’s… After Fischer it feels strange leaving it so long… You’d fucking hate what I’m wearing right now,’_ he adds suddenly.

Arthur can picture him looking down and playing with his shirt sleeves, its foulness striking Eames’ muddled mind afresh and reminding him of Arthur. He is annoyed that Eames would make an association between Arthur and something vile enough that the forger would willingly have it cover his body.

Eames chuckles. ‘ _That sounded like the beginning of really crap phone sex. ‘You’d hate what I’m wearing, better just take it off!’ Ha, sorry. Well, no, I’m not that sorry. Anyway. I’m wearing that tweed and paisley combination you love so much.’_

Arthur groans; fucking paisley. He had never explicitly told Eames what he thought of it, but Arthur’s instinctual look of disdain and his own dress sense would have spoken volumes to a man much less observant than Eames.

‘ _I started to wear it just to piss you off_ ,’ Eames confesses after a moment, sounding smug. ‘ _You’ve no idea how easy you are to tease_.’

Arthur does have an idea. He really does.

‘ _You did enjoy some of it though, you’re just too proud to admit to it. You’ll own up eventually, trust me. The tips of your ears and your nose would go all pink, and then you couldn’t stop yourself from flushing, so you’d scowl. Charming, really. I bet you’re doing it right now.’_

Arthur most decidedly was not.

Eames trails off again with a soft laugh, but the sound of his slow breathing remains. At first it sounds like he might hang up, but then he begins to hum under his breath. It takes a few seconds for the tune to recognizably become ‘Oh my darling, Clementine’. The words, Eames’ own version of them, sound rugged and the tone is surprisingly melodic.

‘ _Oh my darling, oh my darling,_

_Oh my darling, Arthur mine._

_You are lost and gone forever_

_Dreadful sorry, Arthur mine._

_Ruby lips above the water,_

_Blowing bubbles soft and fine_

_But, alas, I was no swimmer,_

_So I lost my Arthur mine._

_Oh my darling, oh my darling,_

_Oh my darling, Arthur mine._

_You are lost and gone forever_

_Dreadful sorry, Arthur mine._

_How I missed him, how I missed him,_

_How I missed my Arthur mine…’_

Eames’ singing stops. Arthur doesn’t know if it’s because Eames can’t adjust the remaining lyrics to his satisfaction or if he’s simply forgotten the rest of the song. The last line makes Arthur shiver because – well, he hardly needs to complete that thought, does he?

When Eames speaks again, he is serious and somber, almost confessional. _‘I do miss - I’ve been telling myself to call you but… You walked away at the airport. I could tell you were about to look back and then you stopped yourself. I wanted to make you look at me. I should have –‘_

He stops abruptly and inhales deeply. ‘ _I’m pissed. I can’t believe I just – fuck. I’m gonna go. Goodbye, Arthur. I – goodbye.’_

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Arthur doesn’t call him back. He intends to after first listening to the recording. It makes him laugh to hear Eames tease, and it makes his heart twist to hear Eames sound forlorn and know he caused it. The call button is nearly pressed, but then other considerations stay his hand. What if Eames was too drunk to remember anything? How would Arthur even begin to explain that conversation? And if Eames did remember, what could Arthur say then? Words would undoubtedly fail him.

No. He would not call Eames.

But he does save the message, He tries to convince himself that he is not doing so because it is Eames’ voice, Eames’ emotion, and one of the first honest conversations they’ve ever had, albeit one-sided, that he is preserving. All that is of no significance. None whatsoever.

The truth however is another matter. In reality it is a sort of concession and memento. It sparks an internal battle because the action, and the sentimentality it implies, goes against all of his instincts. He’s aware of the danger that its mere existence poses. Anonymity is a necessary precaution in his profession, along with leaving as little trace of oneself as possible behind for the wrong people to find. A phone containing personal messages could potentially be fatal like a gun. And yet, despite his better judgment, he can’t bring himself to erase it.

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Arthur is nothing if not resolute. But when it comes to Eames he is beginning to realize, maybe for the first time in his life, that while there are many times when tenacity is vital, at other times he must break his own resolutions.

He can stop himself from calling Eames. He can’t stop himself from thinking about what Eames’ message meant.

Evidently he wasn’t the only one feeling lonely and morose. It was a shared sense of paucity, combined with the failure or unwillingness to do anything about it.

Arthur likes Eames. He really likes him, and for some time. He is pretty sure that Eames feels _something_ back. But Arthur is afraid to make the overture, to bring about the dialogue that returning a call brings. And clearly Eames is only willing to make the same overture with Dutch courage. The idea of entering into a relationship with Eames prompts trepidation and more anxiety at the prospect than eagerness. In their line of work it is a risky idea. One only needed to look at the wreckage Dom and Mal left to resuscitate an age-old deterrent. The fact that the colleague in question is Eames makes it all worse.

And yet… It is also the only thing he can have with Eames that goes beyond the boundary of friendship. Either they become something or they avoid the idea altogether. He won’t let himself be another notch in Eames’ bedpost, and Eames a notch in his. Arthur isn’t in love with him; one day he could be. But he doesn’t know if he is ready for that emotional dependency at this point in his life. He doesn’t know if he will be ready for the liability that being tied down means. He doesn’t know if he could bear reality not living up to what he thinks he wants.

There are, evidently, many things he does not know, and can’t know at this point in time. One thing he thinks he knows: It shouldn’t be this hard. No wonder he’s so scared to make a move.

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He cannot resolve to stop thinking about Eames. Those thoughts, however, at least strengthen his resolve to do nothing.

But Eames shatters Arthur’s resolutions, as he had his preconceptions when they first met, because Eames turns out to be the braver man.

Arthur really shouldn’t have been so surprised.

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 The next voicemail comes a month later after complete radio silence on Eames’ end and unproductive woolgathering on Arthur’s while he works a job in Cairo. This time instead of a dead battery Arthur is passed out on a hotel bed, his exhaustion from another completed job making him sleep through the Nokia ringtone Eames used to tease him about. (‘ _Of course Arthur has to go for the most generic one possible. Live a little mate!’)_ Arthur finds and listens to it an hour after it is left. Eames is, thankfully, sober, but still exuding the typical teasing tone he adopts around Arthur. Its familiarity is reassuring. Eames doesn’t mention his previous call.

_‘Arthur, long time no see. How are you? I’m pretty fantastic myself, and I’ll be even better once you accept the proposal I’m about to put before you. You get to see my devastatingly attractive face, I get your wonderful condescension, and we both get paid handsomely. It’s win-win, darling. A job. A big one.’_

Eames continues, less jokingly. ‘ _It’ll be tricky. Nothing on inception, but_ _not a stroll in the park either, not by a long shot. I’ve already got an extractor and an architect on board, so now I just need the best point man I can get.’_

The unspoken compliment lingers down the line.

_‘I know I don’t usually do the recruiting – Cobb’s the one for that, once you tell him where everyone is. But I’m making an exception this time. I feel the urge to branch out. And – I need you for this to work.’_

That last sentence is close, so close to being what Arthur wants to hear that he stifles an intake of breath, momentarily forgetting that Eames isn’t actually there anymore.

Regardless, it’s enough to loosen some of Arthur’s defenses because part of him can think that ‘this’ refers to Eames himself. Naturally, however, Eames’ verbal diarrhea ruins the moment. ‘ _Besides, we have to improve on our teamwork. If you ask me very nicely I might help that underdeveloped imagination of yours. Just imagine what you could become under my guiding influence!’_

The tone is enough to let Arthur know that the forger is wearing a shit-eating grin. Bastard.

‘ _Anyway,’_ Eames says, back to business, ‘ _I won’t give you the details over the phone, so call me back for flight times and we’ll get you over here straight away. Bye, Arthur.’_

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Another hour of deliberation, and then Arthur stops cradling the phone and uses it. The lure of a job, a good job, almost always entices him, and this time is no different. Since Eames is doing the asking, Arthur would automatically say yes, almost no matter what the request. It’s the overture he was too afraid to make, but he is pleasantly surprised to find that it is easier to respond to one than begin one. Besides, he can fall back on the cover of professionalism. If nothing else, he’ll be wealthier financially, if not emotionally, by the end of the job.

When he hears Eames’ voice again, Arthur recognizes the underlying smugness that was also present in the voicemail. Eames had known what his answer would be before he had made the call.

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The second message is initially saved because it’s forgotten in the rush to pack and reunite with Eames. He doesn’t remember it until the job itself is over and he is about to embark on another one with the forger (and hopefully many more after that).

With the job behind them, it’s easy to decide to keep this voicemail. It’s a reminder of what brought him back, and isn’t that something good to hold onto? It creates a web of associations, not impossible to break, but he doesn’t feel like breaking them for once. He can associate the call with jittery nerves on a flight to Canada, with the feeling like being punched in the chest when he sees Eames smile at him in the arrivals area. He can associate it with the knowledge that they are now closer than they’ve ever been, and with the realization that while neither have broached the subject of their feelings for each other, and they may never do so, there’s no rush on talking about, and entering into, a relationship that neither of them may be ready for.

Things are easy. There’s no rush to _talk_.

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That is, there is no rush until an occasion to rush presents itself. After two months of exhilarating and perfectly executed jobs in tandem it goes spectacularly wrong. And all it takes is one wrong job, one wrong move to end up in a body bag.

They wake up in yet another anonymous warehouse with temporary colleagues, and a quick glance at the forger's face tells Arthur that something is wrong. After so much time together Arthur has finally on occasion learned how to read Eames, and simultaneously experience has taught him to trust Eames' judgment. He does so now, and his body begins to radiate the same tenseness.

They’ve just hurriedly packed their equipment away when gunfire erupts from God knows where. The architect and extractor fall to the ground with twin gasps. Arthur stifles his own gasp when he feels white hot pain sear along the side of his shoulder where the bullet grazes him on its way by.

Gritting his teeth, he darts behind cover with Eames and escapes out the back entrance under another hail of bullets. Before they separate, Eames squeezes his arm once, tightly. Then he is gone.

Time to put the plan they had outlined two months ago in motion. Eames had joked that ‘precaution’ was Arthur’s middle name, but Arthur knew that they would be glad one day of his foresight. After splitting up the second step is to rendezvous at a prearranged safehouse in the city, and then move on after an hour, regardless of whether or not the other has shown up. It’s prudent and not unlike strategies Arthur has devised in the past. Eames had claimed he would abide by it, but Arthur couldn’t count on two months of his company inducing Eames to ignore his plans if the opportunity arose.

Which it inevitably does.

Fifty minutes after they split up, a call comes through on Arthur’s phone, rings for a minute and then gets put to voicemail.

At first, Eames’ voice is brash and panicked, words dripping from his tongue between stuttered breaths that form during running. It’s distressed, frantic, and verging on incomprehensible.

_‘Arthur, where the hell are you?’_

Ragged inhales, pounding footsteps.

_‘Pick up the bloody phone! This is like the sixth time you haven’t answered! If you’ve gone and died without telling me, without giving me a chance to – I’ll never fucking forgive you! If you’re still out there then tell me, otherwise I’m staying out to look for you.’_ Eames’ voice has never been so strained, and although the words sound harsh, the motivating sentiment is clear.

_‘Fuck, Arthur, I’m – I – don’t make me do this over the phone. Tell me where you are!’_

Then there’s a sharp gasp, a broken murmur of, ‘ _Arth-_ ’

Then he hangs up.

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Arthur didn’t mean to worry Eames, but life rarely gives Arthur precisely what he wants.

For some inexplicable reason the intruders from the warehouse decide to follow Arthur instead of Eames, and their tenacity prevents Arthur from attempting to reach the safehouse; he won’t put Eames in danger if he can help it.

Unable to shrug off his tail, a shoot out in damp grimy back alleys becomes inevitable. Arthur is an excellent shot, but his luck runs out after he thinks he’s finally safe. He puts a bullet into the chest of the last hit man, it must be inches from his heart, and Arthur’s walking away from him in triumph. The hit man’s last laugh is to have more strength than a dying man has any right to have. He aims his gun at Arthur’s back and shoots through Arthur’s gut. Arthur spins on his heel to shoot the man again, this time between the eyes, but the damage has already been done.

Arthur is surprised at first. He heard the violent bang of the gun but he can’t feel anything wrong besides being a little cold. He mentally berates himself for his cockiness. He may not feel anything, but his mind knows much better.

He stumbles down a side street or two, still intent on getting to Eames until his legs have other ideas and can’t support him anymore. He collapses against a wall and slips to the ground, feeling dizzier than he has ever felt in his short life. He can’t help but look down at his hands, dripping red from trying to staunch the blood flow. The stain seeping across the entirety of his formerly white shirt gives him the hazy realization that this probably will be fatal.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, startling his mind away from morbid thoughts. Eames’s words come back to haunt him, and Arthur now more than ever regrets selecting that ring tone because he can’t make the sound stop; the effort of applying pressure to his bullet wound and simultaneously reaching for a phone is too much. The ringing continues for about a minute until it mercifully cuts out. He’s relieved because if he’s dying does the fucking Nokia ring tone have to be the last thing he hears? He’s not expecting anything poetic or meaningful, even silence would do.

‘Arthur.’

It’s a ghostly voice that Arthur thinks must come from his imagination; a deathbed scene with Eames really is a bit too trite for his taste.

By the time the forger reaches his side, Arthur has slipped into darkness. As he descends, Arthur thinks, you missed me again, I missed you again. But this time you can’t leave a message for me to find later.

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Waking up in hospital after emergency surgery is not something Arthur expects, and he certainly isn’t lucid enough to appreciate it, but it happens nonetheless. A dying man’s hands are fortunately not terribly steady, and the through-and-through abdominal shot missed his spine and grazed past his stomach, like the shoulder shot, against all odds.

The hospital room walls are bland and the curtains downright offensive. Eames is present in an uncomfortable chair with an even more uncomfortable expression on his face. It’s a peculiar mixture of guilt, anger, worry and relief, but Arthur hardly comprehends that Eames is there at all before sleep forcibly beckons to him again.

Eames still has the same expression the next time Arthur wakes up, although the anger and worry seem to have been diluted. Arthur is in considerably more pain this time, and he guesses that either his system is getting used to the painkillers or the dosage has been lowered. Whatever the reason, Arthur feels much more alert.

Eames offers, or rather, imperiously commands him to drink some water, and then asks, ‘What happened?’ his voice breaking on the second syllable. Arthur is tempted to say, ‘You first,’ but he doesn’t, because Eames looks like he hasn’t slept since Arthur was shot, and there’s _something_ in Eames’ eyes that scares him.

They swap stories, but Arthur can tell that his is not the only one that is condescended and edited. Eames looks more anxious than his words let on, but Arthur is too tired and pained to grill him over it. Arthur does his best to downplay the situation, and once some of the guilt has been wiped from his friend’s face, Arthur sleeps again.

The third time he awakes he notices the voicemail. He’s alone at first when he regains consciousness. The selfish part of him is disappointed. The sensible part tells him that Eames can’t stay all the time and will probably be back later. In an attempt to stave off boredom, Arthur blindly slaps his hand around on the bedside table until his fingers close around his phone. He sees the message notification, and it dimly reminds him of something to do with Nokia ring tones and death.

He presses play as Eames appears in the doorway. The forger strides across the room and sits, dragging the chair closer still, and looking exhausted. He listens with Arthur to the rest of the message once it’s put on speakerphone, his body language giving nothing away. Consummate actor, as always.

When it’s over Arthur holds the phone in his hands, unsure of what to say or do. Eames is behaving as if it wasn’t his distressed voice emitting from the phone and it confuses Arthur.

He decides to delete the message. It unnerves him and he’s pretty sure it must unnerve Eames, so it’s best to pretend that it never existed. It grieves Arthur to know that they’re still not past lack of communication.

As he is about to move his fingers, big, stronger fingers encase his own and prevent him. Their gentle presence stirs some warm emotion in Arthur’s chest that he can’t say he’s felt before with anyone else, but he’s pretty sure he can identify it.

‘Don’t,’ says Eames in the same, broken timbre.

‘Why?’ Arthur feels even more confused. ‘Why did you deviate from the plan? Why are you suddenly so closed off from me? What are you hiding?’ The questions tumble from Arthur’s tongue before he can stop himself.

Eames doesn’t answer immediately. At first he looks away and loosens his grip on Arthur’s hands. When he does respond a minute or so later, Arthur is startled because he had given up on a reply.

‘It’s honest.’ Eames clears his throat, wets his lips, and continues. ‘I don’t trust people, not really. I don’t let myself care about them and I don’t get close. But when it comes to you – I was scared. I’ve become entirely too used to knowing that you’re there.’

Eames’ fingers trace circles on Arthur’s skin, but all else is still.

Eventually Arthur picks up the phone, sending Eames a reassuring glance when he makes an objecting noise that catches in his throat. Arthur plays back the other two saved messages. He can’t follow Eames’ expressions, but he makes note of each time the grip around his fingers tightens and relaxes.

Once they’re finished, it’s Eames’ turn to ask why, and he does so with what Arthur believes is hope in his voice. Arthur is prepared for the question, has been for longer than he’s realised as he had to keep asking himself the same thing all this time.

‘They matter. You matter. You always have.’

‘Always?’

‘Don’t get me wrong, you can be an insufferable prick most of the time. But.’

Eames chuckles at the insult that signals a brief postscript to their former camaraderie before their relationship completely ends as they know it.

No, not ends. Grows.

Eames is more in his personal space now than he was a few minutes ago, having shifted his seat even closer and leaning his body right into Arthur’s. He’s closer than they’ve allowed each other to be before.

‘Anything else you wanted to add?’ Eames asks, his gaze drifting between Arthur’s eyes and lips.

‘Eames, I didn’t know what I wanted before or what I was ready to have. I’m still not certain. But I think I might need…’

Eames cups his face and kisses him insistently and then dwindling into greater tenderness. They both sigh, as if to say, ‘at last!’ When Eames pulls back he doesn’t move far away. ‘Something along those lines?’ he asks, eyes dancing.

Arthur leans forward and kisses him again. He mumbles against his lips, ‘Enough talking. Time for that later.’

Now that they have the basics sorted out, they will have time to talk.

Arthur once complained that life didn’t give him precisely what he wanted. But for now it gave him something better.


End file.
